POEMS BY LOCAL WRITERS
WOODLAND, THE COUNTY PARK
I am driving along on an old country road,
Still slightly familiar as I visit the area where
I grew up, so many years ago,
I see a sign, Woodland-County Park, next
right, two miles
Memories flashed and tugged and pulled,
I had time, I could not say no
In minutes, I turned into the parking area
I parked near the entrance. Except for lack
of maintenance, it looks much the same
I quickly noticed how the landscape has grown,
especially the trees we used to climb
It would appear the shabby look is from age,
not by use, that wear and tear would change.
It was disappointing but I had to climb the
cement steps one more time
I carefully moved on the vine covered steps,
I avoided the slippery green moss.
The old, wooden guide rail is still standing,
though leaning and looking rather frail, covered
by some flowering weeds
I notice that old log not far from the trail, so
badly rotten, the one we used to jump across.
The view, from the top of the hill, is still here, but
greatly changed by years of heavy growth
I paused and thought back for a second, then
I made my way back to my car.
I thought as I started the engine, the old county
park is not the same.
Still, in my memories, the “Woodland” will
always be a childhood star.
DENNIS C. ORVIS
Winter Haven
SOUL MATE
We’ve had our share of lovers
But that’s not who we are
Boxers, fighters, glovers
Not for us I’m sure
Our hearts are pure
What else for?
We are who we are
Life carves a scar
But doesn’t define
Who we are
As we are cut from the car
Alive and breathing
Still not receiving
The love meant to fill the heart
But now it’s time to start
Feeling my love
Sent from above
To fill you and make you whole
My twin flame
The other half of my soul
AARON RASCHKE
Lakeland
PROUST AS POET
Not at all unlike, at the break of day
Before the Sun’s luminescence is full
And its rays have heated things in a way
That proclaims its irresistible pull
Upon the Earth and all creatures therein,
A swan which glides serenely in a pond
With placid surface, that delicate skin
Still unblemished and as yet to respond
In ripples or waves, so too, a man’s hand
Drifts across a page and deposits words,
Such compliant tools under his command,
Beautiful, charming, as the songs of birds
Who have found a tree and lit upon it
And thereby helped him compose a sonnet.
ROBERT P. TUCKER
Lakeland
Send original poetry to features@theledger.com
This article originally appeared on The Ledger: WRITE ON
